Chapter Two

Out of My Dreams

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Harold and any other original characters. The songs featured herein are also NOT MINE. No lawsuits, s'il vous plait.

Draco woke up smiling. He shifted the cover aside and reached for his wand instinctively. The day before came back to him as he realized he was wandless. He opened his eyes fully, rubbing them groggily.

Harold was sitting comfortably in a chair, smiling.

Draco jumped, pulling the cover back on top of him. "How long have you been here?" he gasped.

Harold laughed. "Long enough, love. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

Draco blushed, grumbling softly.

Harold stood up. "I'm sorry if you find this a bit sudden, but you've captured my attention." He sat down on the bed beside Draco. "And I have to hand it to you. Not many people manage to do that so quickly."

He cupped Draco's chin, planting a gentle kiss on his lips.

The door opened. "Good morning, Drake--" Philip froze, assessing the situation.

Draco felt his heart sink. He pulled away from Harold reflexively.

"What is the meaning of this?" Philip barked. "Harold, I knew there was something strange about you! I couldn't determine what it was, but now I know! You, sir, should have perished with Sodom and Gomorrah!" He turned to Draco. "And you! With the hospitality we have shown you, you bring this into a place of God?"

Draco blanched. "I...er..."

"OUT!" Philip roared. "You have until noon!"

"But Philip--" Harold protested.

"You'll be leaving too. Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You've found yourself without a job!"

He paused on his way out the door. "Noon, gentlemen. I had better not see you on this property again, unless it is to beg forgiveness from the Lord."

It took Harold only an hour to clean out his house. Draco returned the monastic robes, borrowing a clean shirt and pair of pants from Harold's surprisingly large wardrobe.

Draco carried Harold's tools in a pack, while Harold carried the clothes, food, and bedrolls. Draco had offered to help, but Harold insisted. Well, that suited Draco just fine.

They were headed toward Kingsbridge. There was always work in Kingsbridge, Harold had said. "You'd make a lovely house servant," Harold smirked, pinching Draco's cheek. The primary draw, however, was that Kingsbridge was a large town, large enough that they could remain together without questions or pesky interfering monks.

"Harold," Draco started tentatively, "What do you think of me?"

Colour rose into Harold's cheeks, and a small grin spread across his face. "What do you mean?"

Draco blinked. When Harold blushed, he looked just exactly like Harry!

The revelation of ancestry was followed by a wave of guilt. He had adapted quickly to 1136. So quickly, in fact, he had almost forgotten about Harry. He swore an oath to himself that he would never forget Harry again, no matter whom he met in this time.

Everything was so different here. He felt so cut off from the world as he traveled. He only knew of two places in this dark time. When he was back home, he had had a plan. He knew what his life was going to be. Now, here, he had no idea what he was going to do. It was a bleak outlook, probably one that most of the people here shared.

All these ideas stewed about in Draco's head as they walked along the day's journey to Kingsbridge.

Harold must have noticed Draco's pensive mood. He slipped his hand into Draco's, interlacing their fingers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "What are you thinking about, Drake?"

Draco stopped walking. Filled with resolve, he made up his mind to let go of the past. Henceforth, he declared to himself, I shall be Drake Morning.

Harold sighed and dropped his bag. Draco blinked, his internal monologue ended. "What are you doing?"

Harold winked. "Gotta set up camp somewhere," he said

He pulled a blanket out of the pack and laid it out on the ground near the road. He pulled another blanket and threw it on top of the first. "There. A bed. Now, shall we use it?"

Well, it was getting dark, and Drake was very tired.

Then he saw the look in Harold's eyes, and all his weariness evaporated. His heart leaped into his throat, and suddenly all he wanted to do was feel Harold's bare flesh against his own. He lifted Harold's shirt, trailing his fingers along his exposed chest, savouring the warmth. He brought his face closer to his body as Harold lifted his shirt off. Drake ran the tip of his tongue along the heated flesh, raising goosebumps across Harold's arms and neck. Drake held him by the waist, lowering himself until he knelt on the ground before Harold. He looked up at Harold, as nervous as if it were his first time.

The dream lasted longer this time, for Harry. The Boy's hands appeared, holding an ancient wooden box. The box opened slowly, and a golden light shown out from the crack. It opened wider and the light grew, blocking from view The Boy, his hands, and even the box itself.

He woke up feeling like a million pounds sterling. He even took out his old sketchbook, filled with desire to draw.

He started drawing The Boy. What the hell, he figured. First the curve of the jaw, subdued by shadows. Next his chin, a tiny dimple giving character. The hair, styled exactly as Draco had (and which Harry had experience with drawing). The eyes he saved for last. The eyes were drawn with such fierce intensity that looking at it felt just like the dream did.

One last finishing touch--an upward-swept eyebrow, eternally cocked in intense curiosity--and the drawing was finished.

He tacked the drawing to the wall, and paused. The Boy needed a name. It would have to be something magnificent, something grandiose--he hastily scribbled 'Alexander' beneath the blank portion.

He smiled, his work completed, and sat back against the couch. His depression had lifted after nearly two months. He felt suddenly, truly hungry and a tad thirsty too. He opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway from his flat. He hopped into his car and headed for the grocery (finally), absolutely fixated on a real meal, with all the fixings, and--and perhaps he should head for a restaurant

He pulled some money out of the bank--he'd long since had his galleons converted into pounds, since his decision to live in the Muggle way--and headed down to the nearest Italian restaurant for a celebratory meal. Maybe now he could move on with his life now that the clouds had lifted. Maybe now he could stop thinking about the things that could never be.

He turned on the radio and set it to the American music station, on a whim.

"For all those times you stood by me
For all the truth that you made me see
For all the joy you brought to my life
For all the wrongs that you made right
For every dream you made come true
For all the love I found in you
I'll be forever thankful, baby--"

He switched the channel, upset, hoping he'd get something better.

"And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you--"

OK. So the world was out to get him. It wasn't the first time. He snapped the radio off and changed lanes, heading for the bar-and-grill up the street.

He walked in and asked the waiter for a table for one. The waiter smiled sadly. "Can I direct you to the bar instead, sir?"

Harry blinked. The restaurant was empty save for an elderly comfortably enjoying a meal together. "Fine, I guess."

The waiter led him to the back, and Harry sat at the bar, listening to the music.

"All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
anymore--"

That did it. Tears fell silently from Harry's eyes. As the song continued, he released his emotion in gasping sobs, letting go of the frustration, confusion, loneliness, and rage that had built over the past months. He buried his face in his hands as the singer finished her last chorus.

The next song brought Harry's tears to a close. It was his favourite.

"Put on my blue suede shoes and I
Boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta blues
In the middle of the pouring rain..."

His tears subsided completely, enraptured by the song.

"Saw the ghost of Elvis on Union Avenue..."

The bartender came to Harry. "What can I get you?" His eyes were sympathetic, his accent Irish.

Harry thought for a moment. The song provided an answer. "Do you have catfish?"

The bartender chuckled. "Well, this is Eddie's Louisiana Bar and Grill."

Harry smiled. "Catfish it is. Catfish and Bourbon."

The bartender smiled. "Good choice, I think."

Harry pondered the lyrics as he waited for his drink. Do I really feel the way I feel? He wondered, whispering the question to himself quietly.

The bartender returned, setting the bourbon on a bar napkin. "You wanna talk about it?"

Harry nodded slowly. "My fiancée...died two months ago. I guess it hit me hard when I heard that song on the radio." It was essentially true. Draco wasn't coming back from...wherever he was.

The bartender nodded. "Was he beautiful?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, he--What?" He looked up. "How did you--"

He smiled. "Not many men cry when they hear Celine Dion sing 'All By Myself' you know."

Harry shrugged. "He was perfect. Now he's gone. And this isn't the first time something like this happened. It's almost like every time I get close to someone, they die. It's my curse." He looked back down into his drink.

The bartender put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "My boyfriend just left to work in the States. Now, it's not like death, but it hurts too." He pulled a pen out of his apron and scribbled a number on another bar napkin. "My name's Kyle O'Hanlon. If you need to talk about it, don't hesitate to call."

Harry nodded numbly, getting up from the bar.

Kyle blinked. "Don't you want your catfish? I've no problem eating it myself if you're not wanting it." he winked.

Harry looked dazed. "Can I have it in a box?"

Kyle nodded and winked again. "Just a moment, Harry."

That broke the haze. "How do you do it?"

Kyle smiled, and slid his apron aside, revealing the wand stowed in the pocket of his pants.

Harry nodded. "I suppose you'll want to see it, then." He sighed and parted his bangs. The scar was still there, as clear as ever, and Kyle nodded. Was that a bit of colour in his cheeks?

"Er--Harry, this is awkward, but you were my first wizard crush when I got to Hogwarts. I came in your fourth year, a Gryffindor. You probably don't remember. I'm from a Muggle family, I'd never heard of you till I saw you." The colour deepened slightly.

Harry nodded. "You know, a few years ago, I'd have told you to go away.

Kyle took a deep breath. "And now?"

Harry's eyes met his, and an honest smile came to his lips. "Now I'm just flattered that someone still cares."

Kyle held out the box of catfish, his eyes still locked to Harry's. "Twelve pounds tenpence," he whispered automatically.

Harry reached for his wallet, never breaking the eye contact. He pulled out a twenty-pound note and held it out.

Kyle reached for it, and Harry's other hand met his, closing it within. Kyle drew a sharp in take of breath at the mere thought of touching the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry let go, breaking the silence. "Keep the change," he said, smiling softly as he left the restaurant.

Kyle wiped down the bar absently, humming to himself. "Ask me how do I feel... ask me now that we're softly caressing..."

e n d

A/N: I'd like to welcome my new beta to my writing, Sezza Rikda! The help is much appreciated.

This was a short chapter; I guess I just didn't have as much to say in between. No matter. More to come, my pretties, more to come!